Master of the Swoop
by Wai-Jing Waraugh
Summary: Takes place at the end of 'Lioness Rampant'. Warren Lansark, head steward at Pirate's Swoop, prepares for his new lord's arrival. He and the other servants are nonplussed that their master-to-be is a commoner. Meanwhile, George rides to the Swoop, still coming to terms with who and what he is. The stage is set for a clash of wills between two men who are both used to being masters
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note: Hi there, Tortallan readers! I've been a fan of the 'Song of the Lioness' series for a while now, but this is my first time writing a fic for it - I don't know why I waited so long, nor why now seemed like the right time to start. Needless to say, I have started a fic, which focuses around my favourite character - one George Cooper. I thought I'd write something that fills in the gaps between the Coronation Day battle, and the ending proposal scene in the desert. Some of the characters, such as Warren and Jobrey, are my own creations; others are mentioned in other Tortall books, particularly the Immortals series. I hope you enjoy reading! ~ W.J._

* * *

**Master of the Swoop**

**Chapter One**

Warren Lansark clucked discontentedly as he surveyed the master bedroom.

It was not the room itself that dissatisfied him. The broad bed had been spread with a luxurious coverlet, embroidered with fine threads K'miri silk. A velvet canopy stretched between its four carven posts. Heavy curtains swathed the windows, and the walls were decorated with intricate Scanran tapestries. The cabinets, shelves, and even the backs of the chairs had been buffed to a brilliant shine, their wood as bright as brass.

Warren absently ran his hand over the windowsill; not a single speck of dust came away on his fingertips.

It was a stark contrast to the state the room had been in a mere few days ago.

This particular bedchamber was currently being used as the master not because it was the largest, nor the grandest, but because it was the most habitable. The old castle had previously lain abandoned for more than twenty years. Its last _owners_ \- for want of a better word - had been pirates, and they hadn't exactly been the most courteous tenants. Holes pierced many of the walls, where overzealous fights or enemy cannon fire had battered them. Sections of the roof had caved in, and every floor had been littered with the debris of past revels - old ale bottles, moldering table scraps, fragments and rags and all manner of rubbish, now so rank and rancid as to be unidentifiable.

It had taken Warren Lansark, head steward of the Swoop, and his small phalanx of fellow servants the better part of the past two weeks to make even part of the place look passable. The preparations had set them in such a mad scurry, none of them had had time to visit Corus for the coronation of the king. The maids still grumbled about the new dresses they had bought just for the occasion, never to be worn as intended. Warren chastised them when he heard their complaints. He reminded them that it was the newly-crowned king who had set them to their task; if they really wanted to pay tribute to their new liege, they would do better by dusting the parlour and setting the library straight.

Besides, from what he had heard, it had been far safer to stay at the Swoop than to venture into the capital. The tremors that had rocked Corus, very nearly destroying the Royal Palace itself, had barely reached them here. They had felt the rocky outcrop beneath the Swoop give a single, slight shudder; it had been nothing compared to the devastating shocks that had shaken the city, killing many citizens.

Warren had told them all this, with a grave sense of dignity. They respectfully lowered their eyes at the mention of the dead, but soon began to twitter among themselves again as he turned down the corridor.

In private, Warren allowed himself as inward grumble of his own. Though he'd had absolutely no intention of making the days-long ride to Corus for the occasion, he had rather resented the fact that he hadn't had a choice in the matter.

This was just another of the many reasons that he tutted testily to himself as he glanced the room over one last time, making sure that everything was in proper readiness.

The thick rug upon the floor was laid out with nary a wrinkle. The mirror had been polished to such a high sheen, it looked like a burning sun suspended on the eastern wall, just above the bureau. Well, where the bureau _should_ have been. This was the only thing about the room that was less than immaculate: a faded patch of floor, where the boards had once been covered by some large piece of furniture, now stood bare and exposed. Warren muttered darkly to himself. If it wasn't in place soon, they would run out of time...

A distant grunt echoed down the hall. Warren greeted it with a nod of satisfaction. _Think of the Trickster_, he told himself, _and he rewards you with a snatch of his luck._ He hesitated, then finished the phrase in full: _for_ _good or ill luck, one can't choose._

It was good tidings that came to him now, in the form of the estate's two porters, struggling to lift one end of the heavy bureau between them. It had been taken out into the yard, where the village carpenter had replaced one of its thick side panels, worn clean through by the damp and decay that emanated from the nearby ocean. It was only just now ready to be set back in place. Puffing and panting, the stewards backed into the room with it, barely managing to keep it hoisted above their endangered toes. Warren was just wondering who had the other end, when a shaggy black head peered through the doorway at him.

"Alright, 'Ren?" a laconic voice asked; it sounded rather like the genial grow of a grizzly bear. Its owner would have passed for such a beast, at a glance. He was a massive man, and an immensely strong one; he carried the other end of the bureau all on his own, and even then didn't seem to be fully exerting himself.

"All's well, Job," Warren said, in answer to Jobrey Coltsham 's greeting. The pair had known each other almost all their lives; they had both grown up in the village beneath the Swoop. Though they had never been fast friends - Jobrey liked to drink and could regularly be found at the local tavern, while Warren never set foot on the slope leading down from the castle at all, if he could help it - they were nonetheless quite familiar with each other by now.

"This is the finishing touch," he told Jobrey, indicating the huge oaken desk, which three men set down with a thump. The stewards leaned against it, panting heavily and mopping at their sweat-slicked brows. Jobrey, however, was not even hard of breath. He merely flicked a few stray strands of hair out of his eyes, regarding Warren with a conspirative smile.

"Already filled his bed with sea urchins, d'you?"

Warren scowled at him. "You know I can't do that, Jobrey. Not to a man whom the king himself has appointed. Even if it is just a prank, the crown would surely have my head for it."

Jobrey gave a snicker which sounded almost sinister, though his eyes danced gleefully beneath heavy brows. "I doubt as much," he retorted. "Us commoners all've thick skins, dun' we? Doubt he'd s'much as feel it."

Warren sighed. Jobrey had been saying things of a similar vein for the past few weeks - ever since they had all learned that their fief would be given to a new lord. Jobrey, an under-groom at the local rider's outpost, had jumped at the chance of promotion to head ostler - and at the castle itself, no less. His enthusiasm had waned when he had learned more about the 'lord' whom he would serve. He had been holding a severe grudge ever since.

After the Swoop had been rid of its brigands - the last corsair in Tortall had been laid to rest on Traitor's Hill near the end of King Jasson's reign - the Swoop's estate had been returned to the Crown. Neither Jasson of Conte, nor his son Roald, had taken much interest in this small, dilapidated corner of their realm. It was Crown Prince Jonathon - soon after to become King Jonathon - who had finally remembered the forgotten fief, perched on the very edge of his Tortall, overlooking the Emerald Ocean. He had personally commissioned the immediate restoration of the buildings and grounds, providing funds from the royal treasury for the purpose.

However, the neglected castle had not been deemed fit for his use, nor that of any other, _proper_ noble's. Instead, he had bequeathed it, along with its income and its title, to a lowly _commoner_.

The news had not been well-met at the Swoop. Jobrey was scandalized, and he wasn't the only one. The chambermaid declared that at his age, this 'lord' should be well used to making his own bed. The porters claimed they had no intention of carrying bags for some mere peasant brat. Even the boot-boy, a paltry sprig of a lad accustomed to being harried by everyone else in the house, asked if he would really have to scrape mud from a commoner's shoes.

Whenever he caught word of such dissent, Warren quickly quashed it with a firm rebuke. However, he couldn't help but secretly agree with their sentiments. He had served as the steward of Pirate's Swoop for more than twenty years; snug in his own little house on the bluff, overlooking the draughty barony below, it had been his dubious duty to watch the old estate slowly falling into wreck and ruin. Now, he was expected to repair and refit the castle for some new lord - and not just any. His master would be a newly-appointed noble, who had, up until a month ago, been born and raised a commoner of the Lower City.

This so-called 'lord' was right now on his way to the Swoop, no doubt expecting to be feted and cosseted by the servants who came with his new domain. Once installed, he would be all too eager to wallow in the wealth and privilege that came with his newly-awarded stipend, they were quite sure of it.

Warren had never claimed to have any real allegiance to the fief. The ramshackle castle had not exactly inspired any great loyalty; his position was akin to being caretaker of a rundown old sty. Nevertheless, the surrounding village had always been his home. He found, to his own great surprise, that he was rather protective of it. An outsider of any kind would have been only grudgingly welcomed; but to think that his beloved homeland was seen to be fit only for a _common-born_...

He felt a fierce resentment, which he had confided to no one, and barely even acknowledged himself. There was little point in protesting. There was no possibility of resigning; he had nowhere else to go, he did not wish to lose the home he had made for the past twenty years.

And so he had no choice but to serve this commoner lord, as the King had commanded. He obediently swallowed his pride, though his displeasure still festered, somewhere deep inside of him. A number of snide comments had already devised themselves, threatening to rise to his lips at the slightest provocation. He knew that once this common footpad of a fief-lord arrived, he would have to keep a heavy restraint on himself, as well as closely watching the rest of his staff. The way they had been carrying on for the past few weeks, an insult to His Lordship seemed almost inevitable.

In the yard that lay beneath the bedroom window, there was a clatter of hooves and a loud cry. He glimpsed a fluttering banner, before it was whisked out of sight; a mounted standard-bearer had just entered the stables. He had ridden ahead of his master, as a warning to the castle that they must now prepare to receive their lord.

"Quickly!" Warren hissed at his companions, shooing the still-puffing stewards from the room. "Back to your stations! Job, get down to the stables, you'll be needed for the horses!"

Jobrey raised his brows in a sarcastic arc, but said nothing. He turned and strode back the way he had come, at a deliberately casual pace. The stewards scurried away a few strides ahead of him.

Warren quickly checked his appearance in the mirror, now with the bureau in its rightful place beneath it. He straightened his collar and smoothed his hair; his reflection looked pale and slightly drawn, staring stolidly back at him. It was the last time, he realized, that he would be able to use this mirror as if it were his own.

Despite himself, he found that he was enveloped in a perfect storm of panicked nerves. In all his years, he had never known the Swoop to house a legitimate master; within the hour, it would be his task to welcome the new baron to his home.

Warren had had enough little to do with nobility in his time. As the fief's stand-in overseer, he had sometimes hosted a duke or a viscount, even the odd knight on occasion, who had passed through the region on their way to one of the neighbouring ports. He knew enough about the upper classes to understand what was required of him. This, however, was an entirely different prospect. This was the Swoop's own baron, who would live out the rest of his days here; and Warren, assumedly, would serve him until his own days, too, were done. Suddenly, it seemed like a far more daunting prospect than he had first thought: he was about to meet the man whom he was bound to give his life and allegiance to.

What would this new lord think of this - _his_ \- shabby, sea-lashed barony? What would he think of the ramshackle little town, the remote coastal outcrop, the sulky servants - and of Warren Lansark, head steward of the Swoop, lulled by twenty years of inaction and nearly as run-to-seed as the estate he came with?

Suddenly, the impending arrival filled his lower gut with a swarm of frantic butterflies.

Then a small, cynical voice within his own mind asked: _So what of it? 'Baron' he may be, in name and in title; but he is still just a commoner. His opinion can't possibly count for much._

The thought was rather comforting, and, to his mind, entirely valid.

* * *

George heaved a heavy sigh - the hundredth, it seemed, since he had left Corus.

The evening was shrouded by a gathering curtain of gloom. He both cursed the clouds overhead for their presence, and thanked them for not yet dumping a deluge of cold rain on his head. There was still a chance that they might soon get around to it. He reached down and gently patted the smooth neck of Beauty, his faithful mare. Both of them could do without a drenching. Even if a squall would better suit his own stormy mood.

He silently sent a request to the Crooked God, hoping that his luck would hold out.

Having sent his plea to the gods, he spared a thought for mortal men. Scowling to himself, he both silently thanked, and roundly cursed, the man who was one of his dearest acquaintances, and currently his greatest source of vexation. He thanked King Jonathon of Conte - or Jon, as he had come to know him, after years of unlikely friendship - for allowing him to never again have to fear my Lord Provost. But it was a grudging thanks, tempered by his curse, for having forced a change of identity on him that was so complete, he hardly knew who he was anymore.

George sighed again, tiredly this time. Besides the physical weariness that inevitably came with the days-long ride, he felt mentally fatigued. With every league he put between himself and Corus, he was getting further and further away from the only life he had ever known. This made him strangely grateful that the journey was a long one - he needed time to come to terms with it all, work things out. Work _himself_ out.

He absently shifted the reins in his hands. The motion caused his sigh to turn into a grimace, as his sleeve-cuff caught against the edge of a newly-healed cut on his wrist. It wasn't a serious wound, though its discomfort was growing more pronounced after the many long hours he had spent in the saddle. He could have let his mother place a healing on it for him before he left Corus; when he had called on her to make his farewells, she had offered as much. But he had wanted to keep it with him, as a token of remembrance.

It marked the very spot where he had lost his mastery of the Rogue.

* * *

_George bowed low, his manner slightly mocking, as he daringly bared the back of his neck toward the man who stood opposite him. __He raised his head. "Your Majesty," he intoned, an ironic smile upon his lips._

_Marek Swiftknife stared back at him, his expression aghast. When he spoke, he stammered. "B-but... M-majesty-"_

_"That's you now, Marek," he told the man sternly, using what little authority he still had over his closest ally. "I'll be callin' you Majesty - everyone'll be, from now on. All these years you've been covetin' my role, and here I am, a-giftin' it to you! You should know better than to look a gift-thief in the mouth!"_

_Marek's own mouth was open as he gaped at him. "But... Majes- er, George, the succession-"_

_"This one will be bloodless. Even if it _is _the first time in two hundred years that the Rogue hasn't been passed on through combat." He regarded Marek gravely; his drawn face spoke of past ordeals. "You know well what took place up the hill." _

_He jerked a thumb towards the window of the Dancing Dove, through which the palace's gleaming towers were visible, caught in the setting sun's last rays. At the mention of events that had taken place within its walls on Coronation Day - the thieves of the Lower City had all heard what had occurred there, half in rumour, half from George's own account - Marek made the sign against evil. _

_"It's a noble's game, to scheme and skewer each other over a throne," George went on. "We've seen enough of the like in this kingdom. I've never had any qualms about dyin' for my mastery here; but truth to tell, I've lost my taste for rulership, and I'm more than willin' to meekly pass it over." He had been talking all this while with a straight face; now his chiselled features split in a wicked grin. "You still want it, don't you, eh lad?" he asked, in a laughing tone which somehow brooked no argument._

_Marek didn't reply. He looked as if he hardly believed his luck. True to his name, he was a quick draw with a blade; but even so, he knew he was no match for his chief. In every past tussle they had had for leadership, George had come out tops with barely any effort on his part; Marek had been flabbergasted, not to mention humiliated, by just how easily he had been bested. What was more, he had kept his life own into the bargain; George had refrained from taking so much as an ear, even though, as a ruling Rogue dealing with a would-be usurper, he had had every right to punish him for treason. __Instead, George had spared him; more than that, he had installed Marek at his right hand. At first, Marek thought it an act of arrogance, a need to parade his lack of fear before the rest of the court; he had suspected that George had only wanted him close in order to keep tabs on him. By now, however, he knew better. If George seemed over-confident, it was only because his enemies underestimated him; there was good reason why he was the longest-serving Rogue since Rosto the Piper. George had no real reason to fear Marek Swiftknife, a fact they both well knew._

_And there was more to it than that: George, clever in deceit and sly though he was, knew the value of a man when he saw it, and was honest enough to give praise where it was due. He recognized Marek's talent, and kept him close at hand during the rest of his reign, simply because he knew that Marek was the best man for the job. This act of faith, though it may have seemed misguided to any onlooker who knew the two men's history with one another, had well and truly earned Marek's unwavering loyalty. He had served George as faithfully as any of Jon's sworn vassals might serve their own king. Many were the times when he had wielded his blades in George's defence, rather than in an attack against him - not that George ever needed much defending._

_Now, he regarded his master and friend with an imperious stare, looking every inch the long-kept Rogue-in-waiting. "I'll not take any charity," he said._

_George regarded him with raised eyebrows, biting back a grin; he himself had said much the same thing, not a week ago, to another king. "You'd prefer to take my life along with my rule, then?" he asked, in a tone which, though light, held the first hint of menace that Marek detected. Both men tensed almost imperceptibly on the spot, shaping for a fight. "You'd better get your knife up, then."_

_In a flurry of movement, both men drew. They were closely matched - closer than any other men of the Lower City. Marek's early defeats at the hands of his king were well-remembered; though he had come to regard the one who had beat him as his closest friend, it had still stung. He had steadily been working at his skill, trying to draw even, hoping to someday surpass the man whom he himself regarded as the best._

_Two arcs of silver split the silent parlour; there was a shrill clash of shrieking metal as the blades met. Both men, jolted by the impact, withdrew a step, each keeping their guard up. George's face was serene, but Marek frowned to himself. He had calculated the striking distance between them; in the split-second before their blades had met, he had seen George take an extra half-step across the gap._

_Against George Cooper, whose speed was legendary, a half-step mattered as much as life._

_He stood nearly motionless, watching George with respect in his hardened gaze. His pulse thundered uncomfortably in his throat. From that one pass alone, he well knew how likely it was that he could end up speared on his opponent's blade. He knew that he was still far slower, weaker, less experienced. It would take every ounce of guile that he possessed to, by some miracle, come away unscathed..._

_He lunged forward, feinting towards George's left. It was a beginner's move, obviously never meant to strike. Hoping his lack of tact would lull George into false complacency, he whipped his blade out and in with quick succession, jerking the knife up at an angle which threatened to wrench his own shoulder from its socket, but which aimed its point directly at George's prone right side._

_An elbow jammed into his wrist, nearly dislodging the knife-hilt from his grip, sending his attack off-course. Off-balance and unprepared, he caught a gleam of bare steel out of the corner of his eye, but was powerless to counter it._

_He felt the breeze of the knife against his bare throat. That was how close he came to death._

_Eyes widened, he followed the bright blur of George's blade with disbelieving eyes. The former Rogue's wrist was curved at an awkward angle, ill-suited to pursuing an attack. He had purposefully withdrawn the knife in his grasp, pulling it back just short of slitting Marek's throat. His eyes, which were perfectly calm, told Marek that he had done exactly as he had intended._

_Marek was so busy comprehending this, he almost didn't notice as George dodged to his right and, quite deliberately, drew his own outstretched arm across the tip of Marek's blade._

_Marek gave a hoarse shout; after all these years at George's side, it was his first reaction to be dismayed at seeing any injury dealt to him - even one that he himself had inflicted. No, that wasn't right; George had _purposefully_ manipulated the fight to draw first blood, making Marek the automatic victor of their brief duel._

_"There now," George said, holding his wounded arm up for better inspection; his shirt-cuff was shredded, and a short, shallow gash was bleeding feebly down his wrist. "I yield. You are officially the rightful Master of the Rogue, Marek Swiftknife."_

_Marek mechanically sheathed his blade, with a hand that shook slightly. "C-Cooper," he rasped, overcome with emotion._

_"I'm sure you'll rule well," George said, beaming down into his bewildered face."But for Mithros' sake, practice those upward slashes a bit more - you'll be overthrown in a week if your first challenger is even half the combatant I be!" When Marek's only response was to stare blankly at him, he laughed and clasped him warmly, clapping him on the back. "I'll be vacatin' the 'castle' shortly," he said, indicating the packed trunks and chests that littered the floor of his chamber. "I've become a ruler of a different kind now - a legitimate one, if you can believe it." He raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if he himself hardly could - which, truth be told, he didn't yet. "But just because I'm abdicatin', don't think you'll be seein' the last of me, Majesty. Us lords should stay on friendly terms, and I don't doubt that we'll keep some old contacts in common. I'll have a few uses for you in future as well, my lad, mark my word - if you're agreeable."_

_Marek regarded him for a long moment, still looking slightly dazed. Then he drew himself up, endeavouring to look as regal as he possibly could. "I'm yours to command, Freeman Cooper." He gripped George's hand, a grim smile on his face. "Always. I hope you enjoy your new rule - you'd better terrorize them new subjects of yours just as much as you did us."_

_George grinned impishly at him. "I intend to," he said, wholeheartedly._

* * *

George mulled the memory over, not for the first time since he had left Corus. The succession already felt as if it had taken place a long time ago, though it had only really been a few days.

It had been a long ride. A company of the King's Own had ridden with him for the first day and a half, as far as the beginning of the Coastal Road. At that point, they had received word that Eldorne fugitives had been sighted near Lake Tirragen. As the closest available unit, they were obliged to respond.

George had waved off Sir Raoul's placating speech, as the large knight tried to apologize for abandoning him so. He reminded the commander of the Own just who it was that had taught Squire Raoul how to palm a knife. He was no soft-handed statesman who couldn't fend for himself, and he refused to be treated as such. He had protested the need for a mounted escort from the start, only conceding because Jon had insisted that it was a proper baron's due. George, common-born and Rogue-raised all his life, was accustomed to mocking the absurdities that made up a typical nobles' conduct; he had laughed heartily when Alanna had told him the things she had been forced to learn in her lessons of deportment. Now, he was swiftly realizing that he himself would be forced to adhere to some of these foolish constraints. This last chance to defy them was far too alluring to resist.

As they had prepared parted ways, he had waved away the offer of having a few men left behind as his escort. He was far happier on his own. Though Raoul of Goldenlake was a good friend, being surrounded by so many uniforms made him nervous. A month ago, having them about could have only meant being finally captured by the Lord Provost; the thought of facing an immediate writ of execution still made his insides writhe. Even with things as they now were, he was frankly pleased to see the last white cloak disappear into the distance, swallowed by the dust of the road and the glare of the noonday sun.

He tried to ignore the fact that they had taken the Great Southern Way, which, if they followed it all its length, would eventually lead them into the desert.

He had ridden on for the rest of day in welcome solitude. The journey had been a pleasant one; the weather, for the most part, was hospitable. The fierce June sunshine was tempered by the fresh breeze coming off the ocean. It stung his face more sharply the closer he got to it, coating his lips with the astringent tang of salt-spray.

_I'll have to accustom myself to that before long_, he thought wryly to himself. Pirate's Swoop, he knew, was right on the edge of the coast.

He didn't bother seeking out an inn as night closed round him. He made camp and built a fire, watching it flicker as he ate his solitary meal. He was glad to be alone - except for Beauty, he quickly reminded himself, giving the mare's inquiring muzzle an affectionate stroke. For a man who had always surrounded himself with both friends and enemies aplenty, the sudden lack of company was strangely restful.

It suddenly dawned on him that, as long as he'd lived, he had always defined himself by the companions he had kept. He had first been Eleni's errant son, loyal to a fault, for all that he was crooked; then just one of several street urchins whom the fat-pursed merchants took pains to avoid. Next he had become King of the Rogue, respected and envied by every thief in Tortall, acknowledge by all of them for what he was - but never _who_ he was. Soon, he would transform again, becoming Baron of Pirate's Swoop, as well as the King's Spymaster. He didn't resent his impending duties; after all, managing the Rogue had been akin to herding cats, and spying could only be as hard, surely not any more. Still, he revelled in this brief chance to be, for a night and a day, not a thief, nor rogue, baron, nor spy - not even a son. For now, he could just be George Cooper - owner of Beauty, traveller in transit, who would soon bank the fire, check his mare's feedbag, and settle in his bedroll under the stars, where he would doze fitfully until morning.

However refreshing though this spate of solitude was, it did not set him entirely at ease with himself. His mood had been steadily growing more and more sombre. Since he had seldom travelled far from Corus during his tenure as the Rogue, he should have been revelling in this change of scenery, enjoying his newfound freedom, anticipating the wealth and fortune that would soon be his to claim. However, he felt strangely restless, and at the same time a little stifled. He wasn't yet wholly sure that being free of the Rogue was a worthy cause for celebration. As it happened, he felt much the same way about being tethered to a fief.

For a fleeting moment, he dared allow himself to think of the only other role - the _favoured_ role - he had ever played: that he had held in Port Caynn. At House Azik, he had ceased to be the Rogue, would have gladly even forgotten that he was George Cooper, so long as he could become known as _lover of the Lioness_. He gave the heaviest sigh of all, wondering if his brave lass were even now on sentry duty for her tribe, looking up at the exact same stars as he now gazed at, glittering down from high above her desert camp. He liked to think so; and liked even more the wistful dream he had, in which the pair of them shared the same sky - and the same bed.

That possibility seemed even further from him than the Rogue now was.

By late afternoon of the following day, he reached the Swoop's nearest village. At the rider's outpost, he shrugged off offers of a fresh mount, though he did concede to convention and let a standard-bearer gallop ahead of him, to give the Swoop sufficient notice of his impending arrival.

How the lads in the stable-yard all stared at this strange noble, who arrived without an escort, his hair tousled by the wind, his cloak covered in dust. He flashed a genuine smile at them, watching with concealed pleasure as they shifted nervously on the spot, unsure of how to take him. His old, immoderate pride swelled up within him.

_He'd show them just what a noble could be._ Already, he was unorthodox enough to set them off-balance. Given time, he would find plenty of other ways to make them stare in amazement.

He had let the standard-bearer - Josua, the lad's name was - get well ahead of him. After three days in the saddle, he didn't feel like exerting himself - nor Beauty - any more than necessary for the last leg of the journey. He rode at a casual pace, examining his surroundings with keen interest.

_So, this was what his fief was like._

The town was pleasant enough - as quiet as the Black God's temple, it seemed to him, for whom the bustle of Corus had always throbbed like a second pulse. He thought of it with a pang, then quickly banished it from mind. There was no going back now, he well knew.

This hamlet seemed a bit livelier, at least, than Port Caynn.

In the streets, heads swivelled to watch him pass. They were off the main highways, and besides travellers being rare, they were all on the lookout for the new baron, whom they knew was due to arrive soon. Farmers, maids and children alike eyed him with thinly-veiled curiosity as he passed. Men steadily met his eyes, then looked away again, in what was a clear dismissal. The women whispered about him less discreetly than their men-folk did, while their children cavorted ahead of his mare, shrieking and pointing, until even they too lost interest. As he passed the local tavern, several heads poked out of the windows, eying him appraisingly; they then whisked out of sight again, far more intent upon the contents of their tankards.

George smirked to himself. _Haven't lost the touch yet - I can still go inconspicuous when it pleases me._

He knew it wouldn't last. If he had thrown back his cloak to expose the barony crest emblazoned on his tunic - he had changed into it before he rode out that morning - the reaction would have been vastly different. Even without bearing proof of his title across his chest, word would soon get round, and the locals would come to know him on sight. Watching as various heads turn away from him as he rode by, he wondered how friendly they would be, once the truth was known.

Nobility had a way of dividing people, he well knew.

As he left the last of the houses behind, heading further south, the ground began to rise steeply. He let Beauty have her head, picking her way up the incline at her own pace, as his swift hazel eyes took in the sweep of the coastline. Now those storm clouds were brooding overhead. The wind increased its vehemence, tugging insistently at Beauty's mane, making his travelling cloak billow out behind him like a pennant.

Wondering how cold and draughty the barony itself would be, George cursed Jonathon roundly. Was he expected to defend this stretch of desolate shore against invading Copper Isle forces on his own?

No, he realized; there would be people at the Swoop. Servants. They must be expecting him by now; his standard-bearer would have arrived well before he did.

_How would they receive him?_ he wondered. He imagined how he himself, in their place, would regard such a high-falutin' common-born who gave himself airs, and chuckled grimly at the thought. He knew it couldn't be far off the mark; he expected to see several noses out of joint once he arrived.

Well, such jibes didn't bother him the slightest. This was where Jon wanted him; and despite any hostile welcomes he might get, despite his own misgivings, his near-overwhelming desire to just keep riding south, this was where he would stay, like it or no. He was the Baron of Pirate's Swoop, and there was plenty of work for him to do here. They would all see if he didn't do it well - he was accustomed to mastery, after all, and meant to have it here as well, with cooperation or no.

Beauty carried him round a bend in the cliff wall, and the Swoop came into view for the first time. He appraised it carefully. He was no expert on castles; the Royal Palace was right fine enough, but it had always existed as a separate city unto its own, quite removed from the common folk who huddled in its shadow, too regal to be relegated to the likes of a regional outpost such as this. He had feared the place would be a gaudy old bauble, pretty to look at and ill-suited to any practical purpose. What he saw impressed him. The surrounding hillside formed craggy fortifications of its own accord; the keep's high sea walls, though battered, looked difficult for any enemy to assault. The place was not vast, perched as it was on a rather precarious-looking cliff top, but it seemed deceptively spacious; especially if, as Jon had told him, there were further rooms and passages cut into the rock, as deep as the capital's own catacombs. Above ground, the towers of the barony stabbed into the sky like drawn blades, looking suitably imposing, if only a little worse-for-wear.

That suited him, he decided. He'd rather have a well-worn, serviceable dagger than an ornamented fencing-sword any day.

To his surprise, his mood was slowly brightening. Mayhap in Corus, sure of himself and his surroundings, he had begun to grow complacent - a bit too comfortable. The situation in Port Caynn, and the machinations of Claw, had provided a diversion which, though risky and unwelcome, had certainly kept him well-entertained. The task set before him looked to be far less hazardous, though no less of a challenge. He was very like his own lass, in the way that he didn't like to be kept rusting in the scabbard; he liked to be set to a specific purpose. Only a man - crooked or otherwise - who liked to be kept busy would dare take on the Rogue in the first place. And this new role would certainly keep his attention for some time to come - for the rest of his days, if things went as intended. He might even come to enjoy it in that time.

Clucking to Beauty, he straightened in the saddle and urged the mare forward, letting his newfound eagerness spur him on.

_Barony Pirate Swoop, best prepare yourself,_ he thought to himself, chuckling inwardly. _With a former Rogue as your new master, you'll hardly know what hit you - not once I've taken you into my nimble, pocket-picking paws._

* * *

_Author's note: well, that's it for the first chapter. It went on far longer than intended; hopefully the next few chapters will be shorter vignettes._

_The geography surrounding Pirate's Swoop is based on the maps that appear in the front of the books. In Wild Magic, it took the trainee Riders several days to travel from Corus to the Swoop; I sped up the journey, since I figured that skilled horsemen like the Own, and a single rider like George, would cover the distance a bit quicker. I set this in late June, since the Coronation was said to take place in summer, and Alanna's letter to George, sent to him at the Swoop, is dated as late July, by which time he had had some time to settle into his duties (and yes, you can count on me to incorporate that letter into this tale - just you wait for it!). If you can spot it, there was a slight reference to the Provost's Dog series - don't expect any more than that, since I haven't read the Doggy books yet._

_I hope I haven't got any details wrong, feel free to contact me if you think I've missed the mark in any way! Also, I'd love to see your reviews of my handiwork, please remember to sign in if you want me to reply! I'll try to come up with a second chapter soon - we'll get to see George's arrival at the Swoop next! ~ W.J._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

The wind was rising as Warren strode out into the castle's foremost courtyard. He scowled as he felt it drag ragged fingers through the thin thatch of hair he had only just tidied, making his collar flap up around the tips of his ears.

The rest of the keep's servants were already assembled. The maids stood in a neat line, trying vainly to keep the breeze from snatching at the hems of their starched white aprons. His fellow stewards and houseboys, looking smart in their gold-trimmed livery, were anxiously watching the clouds that had gathered overhead, waiting for the coming rain to spill their banks. Jobrey's face itself resembled a thundercloud. Warren sighed; the man looked like he'd combed his hair backwards with a rake. There was no telling him to fix it now - nor ever, he rightly suspected. The big man would simply argue that it was the horses in his charge that needed to look presentable, not he himself.

The lad from the rider's post was hovering by the stable door, shooting him pleading glances. With a sigh, Warren went over to him. As he passed, he noticed several maids look around and perk their ears in his direction; the stewards craned their necks, straining to hear over the howl of the wind. They were all anxious for reliable news of their lord; the standard-bearer was one of the first in the Swoop's village to have seen their new master with his own eyes.

"Well, Josua," Warren said, trying to keep his tone level; he was determined to refrain from gossip, keeping his inquiry strictly professional. "How many riders does he have in his escort?"

The boy shifted uncomfortably on the spot, as if afraid that his answer would be the wrong one. "Er... none, sir," he said at last.

Warren's mouth snapped shut in surprise. Ignoring the excited murmur that ran through the others around him, he eyed Josua incredulously. "None? What do you _mean_, none?!"

Josua met his gaze warily. "He ain't got none, sir. Just himself. Rode out o' Corus with a comp'ny of the King's Own, so he says - Gavin, our rider what was returnin' from deliverin' the post two days past, heard talk in Port Caynn that he was accompanied by Commander Raoul himself, as far as that. They got called off to go a-huntin' traitors round the Lake district, and His Lordship came the rest o' the way on his lonesome." He shuffled from foot to foot, looking somewhere between awed and astounded. "He's the strangest noble I ever seen, sir. Got the dust from days' worth o' travel on him, yet he still rides right enough. He could be one of our best couriers, the way he holds himself in the saddle. Never knew no city commoner to ride so well - and here I thought he ain't ever been trained up as a knight."

As he finished, the rest of the household was already whispering frantically amongst themselves. Jobrey looked frankly sceptical; the maids exchanged speculative remarks, while the grooms were nodding thoughtfully to themselves, something akin to respect already in their bland faces. Warren's curt voice cut through their chatter.

"You mean to say, lad... if he's good a rider as that, he could be here sooner than-"

Before he could finish speaking, a sentry up on the castle's observation deck gave a shout. A single rider was approaching along the coastal path.

The ordered ranks of servants were instantly thrown into turmoil. They had reckoned that a city-born commoner, unused to making such a long trip, would take at least half an hour to reach the Swoop from the time he passed through the village; it had barely been a quarter since the standard-bearer had arrived, galloping the whole way. Caught unawares, the staff hastily scrambled to neaten themselves as best they could, scurrying to their rightful positions. Directing Josua back toward the stables, Warren dashed over to stand before the keep's entrance, smoothing wrinkles from his tunic as he went.

An unnatural hush fell as they all stood to attention, intently watching the crest of the hill, where the road ended at the Swoop's gates. After a few minutes of suspenseful silence, a single set of hoof-beats became audible, approaching at a steady pace.

A lone rider slowly rose into view over the edge of the hill, mounted astride a magnificent bay mare, her smooth hide gleaming, as strongly-built as any proper charger. Warren knew nothing about horseflesh, but he heard Jobrey grumble admiringly to himself, despite his determination to remain hostile.

The man upon the horse's back commanded the attention of everyone else in the yard. He was lean, broad shouldered, with a wiry build. He appeared to be quite tall, especially given the way he sat up in the saddle. His straight-backed, steady posture, and the alert tilt of his head, was somehow strangely impressive. His nose was a little too large for noble stock, but his features were otherwise well-proportioned and fairly pleasant. His jaw had a confident set; his mouth was drawn in an impassive line. His hazel eyes swept quickly over the assembled company, appearing to take them all in with a single rapid glance.

He rode into the stableyard, then pulled his mare up a few feet shy of them. The two parties regarded each other in silence. Warren should have been commanding Jobrey and the grooms to attend to their visitor, but he was seemingly rooted to the spot.

This new 'lord' wasn't quite what they had been expecting. True to Josua's word, his cloak was streaked with dust, and his short-cropped waves of nut-brown hair had been pushed all to one side by the strong winds he had just ridden through. Yet he didn't look like just any straggly traveller. There was something about him, something that Warren couldn't put his finger on, that instantly captured and held their collective fascination. There was a certain quality to him - self-possessed, almost regal - that they had never witnessed before. It was nothing like the haughty, aloof manner that they had come to expect from the upper classes; nor was it the belligerent swagger of the lower caste. They didn't know what it was, but it held them all in its sway right from the start.

The young man continued to regard the company surrounding him with sharp hazel eyes. His gaze settled on Warren, and the head steward felt himself tense as he was singled out by it. Those eyes seemed to spark a little, revealing glittering green tints in their depths. Then a smile lit upon his lips, showing a flash of dazzling white teeth, which made several of the younger maids flutter involuntarily in place.

"Well now," the baron said, with a pronounced lilt in his voice - an unmistakably trace of Lower City street cant. "This be a fine welcome, indeed."

As he spoke, he brushed aside the edge of his cloak with a casual flick of his hand. This exposed the front of his tunic, upon which a familiar crest - a key, embroidered in gold, upon a brown background - stood out prominently.

This broke the spell that had fallen over them. The obvious accent in his speech, combined with this proof of his noble status, reached them through their mesmerized state. Warren, mastering his surprise and rebuking himself fiercely for his inattentiveness, gave a quick bark of instruction, urging both Jobrey and the houseboy forward.

Jobrey approached, his eyes distrustful, going to the horse's head. Meanwhile, without waiting for the hostler to get a steadying hold on the bridle, the baron dismounted, in a single easy motion that filled Warren with an unfair pang of jealousy. An atrocious rider himself, he travelled as seldom as he could, and had to be hauled bodily out of the saddle, stiff and sore, after as little as an hour. This newly-appointed lord had just slid from his perch in seemingly perfect comfort, as if he had been riding for a mere three minutes, not three days.

The baron passed Jobrey his reins. In contrast to the hostler's closed expression, he still smiled, the friendliness of his gesture reaching his eyes, though his attendant's only answer was a sulky glower.

As the horse's rein passed from one set of hands to the other, the baron suddenly leaned in, his lips moving. Jobrey had half a head's height advantage, forcing him to stoop slightly in order to hear. The baron said something in a voice too low for Warren to make out; his grin stayed put, and there were mischievous lights in his eyes. What he said didn't appear to be a threat or an insult; but whatever it was, it had a marked effect on Jobrey. He straightened with a jolt, pulling away as suddenly as if he had been burned. Casting the horse beside him an uncertain glance, he began to lead it away, shooting nervous looks at her master all the while.

Warren would have given a flask of his best brandy to know what had passed between them. Jobrey had a fiery temper and was sometimes too much for even his friends to handle, let alone anyone unfortunate enough to find themselves in his ill-favour, as the new baron had unwittingly done.

However, there was no time for him to find out. The lanky nobleman now turned toward him, his travel cloak swirling around him, a single battered bag in his hand. Warren had only a moment to compose himself, before launching into the speech he had prepared for this occasion.

"Greetings, Lord Baron," he said, as graciously as he could manage, bending his back in a low bow. "I am Warren Lansark, head steward of the Swoop, and your most humble servant. It is my esteemed duty to pass our modest fief into hands, and to bid you welcome in what is now your own domain."

This salutation had been carefully composed and painstakingly practiced for the past week. He discreetly glanced upward, squinting against the force of the driving wind, gauging His Lordship's reaction.

"Thank you kindly," the baron said in reply, his tone warm and appreciative. "I am honoured to be entrusted with such fine lands, and to make my home in such an impressive keep." Warren saw his gaze shoot upward, rapidly taking in the barony's rickety-looking towers. He didn't put much stock in his Lordship's words; he wondered if this response had been rehearsed as much as his own speech had been.

Then the sight of those eyes fell back on him, this time with an inquiring look. "Warren Lansark, perhaps you can tell me somethin' I'm curious about. Know you how thick the rampart walls are, the ones borderin' the cliff-side of the keep?"

Warren raised himself with a jerk. He hadn't expected such a question. "T-that is..." he stammered, feeling rather dumbfounded. The rest of the household watched him curiously; they had seldom known the 'old slave-driver', as they called him, to be caught wrong-footed like this. "I-I think they must be at least five feet thick, my lord, at the closest guess. I can get more exact measurements-"

"All in good time," the baron replied, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. "I was only wonderin'. I'll need to get around to reviewin' security measures here as soon as possible. We can't have brigands takin' my realm from me as soon as it's been bestowed." He winked at the flustered steward, then once again looked up at the keep itself. "I should like to be gettin' inside and takin' possession afore any pirates beat me to the punch. Much as I appreciate the welcome, we would all do well to get indoors, lest the heavens open."

Warren looked down the line of servants, as his Lordship was doing; most of the maids were holding onto their caps to keep them from blowing away, and several of them appeared to be shivering. "Unless my city-bred nose deceives me," the baron went on, "there's a mighty strong storm a-brewin'."

"This is nothing," piped up the bootboy, who was standing close at the baron's elbow. "We've had far worse squalls 'ere than this is shapin' up t'be."

Warren groaned inwardly. Of all his staff, he should have known that the lad would be the first to run off at the mouth. He thought that because he was small, he could get away with a few smart words, with few repercussions in turn. The maids pinched his cheeks when he teased him, and the grooms only pretended to kick out at him when he got underfoot.

All eyes were on the baron. He favoured the boy with a chagrined look. "I don't doubt it," he drawled companionably, looking his impudent challenger square in the eye. "And I trust a hale-lookin' lad like you can weather a squall or two. At any rate, you seem strong enough to take this off my hands for me." He passed over his one small bag; the boy hastily complied, nearly dropping it. "And I trust this won't add too much to your load," the baron went on, flicking a coin - a brass noble, from the way it caught the light - in the lad's direction. Still struggling to keep a hold of the luggage, he just barely caught it.

As the baron moved past him, the boy turned to the rest of the servants with a lopsided grin. Coin still clutched in one hand, he hefted the bag easily in his other. _It's light,_ Warren saw him silently mouth to the rest of the servants, who looked on in amazement.

"The rest of my swag should be arrivin' in the next few days," the baron said, as if he somehow divined what the bootboy said behind his back.

Realizing this comment had been directed at him, Warren quickly turned to face his master, trying to claw back some of his equilibrium. The baron had somehow managed to get him off-balance, and was doing a stellar job of keeping him that way. "Do you know when it can be expected, Your Lordship?"

He was answered with a wry chuckle. "Whenever that lumberin' box they call a coach manages to reach here. I half-wonder how it will get along that narrow pass beneath the cliffs." He gestured toward the bag, which the now-ecstatic bootboy brought up, trailing along behind him. "Most everythin' I'll be needin' for the time is in there. And I trust I can make do for the rest with what is here." He took in the barony with another wave of his hand.

"Yes, of course," Warren replied, in a tone that came out far shorter than he had intended, scolding himself yet again. He had carefully thought out everything he meant to say in this instance well before now, but the words had somehow deserted him. "You need only command, my lord, and everything you wish for will be brought you. I'm sure we can meet your needs."

"That's good, then." The baron favoured him with another genial smile; he seemed to scatter them freely, making the maids flush whenever he squarely caught their gaze. Now he turned from them and strode towards the door, pulling his dust-coated gloves from his large hands as he went.

Warren hovered at his heel, keeping a respectful distance behind him. Peering as best he could over the baron's tall shoulder, he noticed a thin scar snaking up his wrist, half-hidden by his sleeve-cuff. Several pronounced calluses were visible upon the broad palm of his hand.

_Just what kind of common-bred noble has the king sent us?_ Warren wondered to himself, with something akin to dismay.

This was quite different from the spoiled rags-to-riches ruffian he had been expecting; in fact, it was far worse.

* * *

The servants had assembled themselves out in the blustery courtyard ahead of his arrival - awaiting his pleasure, no doubt. He was glad he had kept a steady pace; several of the maids already appeared to be shivering.

George tried to keep from pulling a face as he surveyed them in silence.

Of all the aspects, good or ill, that came with being made 'respectable', this was the one that set his most ill-at-ease. Despite having borne the title of 'Majesty' for many years, he had regarded his court as his subordinates, not his servants. He knew that free-wheeling thieves could only be ordered about so much, before discontent began to fester in their ranks. He understood this need for balance; it had been a key factor in the length of his successful tenure.

The house-staff that nobles kept, he knew, were no less strong-willed than the rogues of Corus; they were simply obligated to obey any order they were given in silence, and were certainly no less resentful for their grudging compliance. He didn't much like the thought of 'owning' any number of people, nor having them bound to his will.

He scanned the crowd that ranged before him with a discreet, long-practiced scrutiny, sizing them up.

There was no danger among the maids. Many of the younger ones gazed at him gleefully, a coquettish slant to their lowered lashes; and even the older ones already looked not a little bit charmed. He grinned to himself inside, though he kept a straight face outwardly; he well knew how great a power came with winning the womenfolk's approval. Rispah would be fair proud of him, he was sure.

He shifted his glance to the men. Here, he had his work cut out for him, though he could see that some of them already looked as though they would at least tolerate him. Some, he knew, would be harder to win; he would just have to take each one as they came.

A glimpse was enough to tell him that the main problem lay with the tall fellow at the back. Yes, there; that fiery glare would set tinder alight, he was sure - it was a blessing that the man wasn't Gifted, or George suspected he would have already dropped where he stood. He was the Swoop's hostler, from the look of him; his bulky arms bespoke manual labour, while his slightly bandy-legged stance marked him as a frequent rider. The leaden scowl upon his brow had no immediate explanation, though George could rightly guess that he was the object of its ire, simply for being what he was.

Well, there were waters to smooth there, sure enough. Perhaps he could make some headway here and now; the sooner he made progress with this obstinate fellow, the sooner he could make inroads with his compatriots.

"Well now," he said, sweeping his cloak aside, as a subtle indication that he intended to dismount; he also, quite intentionally, flashed his credentials at them, so there could be no mistaking who he was. "This be a fine welcome, indeed."

His words and gesture had the desired effect. An elder man in smart brown livery barked a command, and two servants stepped forward; one of them was the hostler, he noticed. George rapidly sized him up, as he sprang lightly from his saddle. His stature was intimidating, indeed; or would be, if George didn't already know that size only counted so far in a battle of wits. The man went to Beauty's head and took hold of her bridle with an insolent air; the set of his stance and the brisk manner about his movements were an obvious challenge.

_Well,_ George thought to himself, _I have an ally who's even taller and stronger than your like; let's see how you and the little lady be gettin' along._

As he meekly passed his reins over to the man, he learned in and said, in a low, even tone: "You'll be wantin' to be wary of little Beauty here, my friend. She's a trained warhorse, and can be fair vicious if she isn't treated just right. You watch she doesn't start bitin' now; I've known her to take a careless fellow's ear off more than once."

He couldn't help but smirk a little as he watched the man give a start, as if he'd had a fire lit under him. He had used this particular tactic on many a suspect stablehand in Corus; it worked here like a charm. The burly man gave the horse a sideways glance, looking suddenly far less sure of himself. As if she sensed his nerves, Beauty lived up to George's warning admirably, tossing her head and shifting impatiently on her hooves. Looking askance at both Beauty and her master, the humbled man cautiously led the mare away.

With this task thus accomplished, George turned his attention upon the rest of his staff. The exchange he'd had with the hostler made just the impression he'd hoped for: he saw new respect in faces, where there had been little enough of it before.

Scanning the ranks before him, he singled out the next man in his sights: the older gentleman who had given orders to the others.

George hastily smothered a laugh as he watched this individual's approach. The man's thinning white hair whipped about in the gale, looking to all appearances like ruffled feathers; his wide collar fluttered freely, flapping along behind him like wings. Completing the effect, he clucked discontentedly to himself as he strutted across the yard towards him. It was like watching a very large, bedraggled rooster crossing a farmyard.

_What an old fusspot,_ George remarked to himself. _I bet he'll be hard to be get along with. I'll have my work cut out with him._

"Greetings, Lord Baron," the object of his scrutiny said, giving him a stiff-backed bow which was apparently meant to be gracious. "I am Warren Lansark, head steward of the Swoop, and your most humble servant."

He launched into a speech which, despite its brevity, sounded very well-rehearsed. This salutation did not fool George; he detected a resounding note of reluctance in his manservant's manner. _A different sort of challenge,_ George quickly decided. _This man won't intimidate with his physicality; he has little enough bulk to be armin' himself with, at any rate. His will be a subtler match of wits. Well, perhaps it will keep me sharp; I worried I'd be in danger of fallin' off of my game in this out-of-the-way place. I could fain ask for anything much better._

Aloud, he said: "Thank you kindly. I am honoured to be entrusted with such fine lands, and to make my home in such an impressive keep."

At mention of the castle - _his castle_, he hastily reminded himself - his keen hazel eyes swept over it. The keep was centred around three rickety-looking towers, the furthermost of them far stouter and taller than its fellows, looming precariously over the sea. George spied a vantage point upon its peak; the glint of a sentry's weapon was visible to him in the sun's dying rays. The rest of the battlements all appeared to be at least as old as the central towers. The stonework was crumbling in places, and he heard snatches of a low-pitched moan, as if the wind were whistling through more than one breach in the outer walls.

"Warren Lansark," he said, turning back to the head steward, who was still bowing low in a superfluous show of pomposity, "perhaps you can tell me somethin' I'm curious about. Know you how thick the rampart walls are, the ones borderin' the cliff-side of the keep?"

The man started upright, a look of bewilderment on his weathered face. "T-that is..." he stammered; George was privately pleased to see the other servants looking at him, ill-concealed amusement writ upon their faces. "I-I think they must be at least five feet thick, my lord, at the closest guess. I can get more exact measurements-"

"All in good time," George replied, feeling a little more generous now. _Two birds with one stone_ \- he had gotten a good enough answer to his query, and wrong-footed his man enough to begin putting him in his place. It wasn't much of a win; but it was a start, which was all he needed for the moment. " I was only wonderin'. I'll need to be review security measures round here as soon as possible. We can't have brigands takin' my realm from me as soon as it's been bestowed."

He winked at the man now, softening his blow a little, making sure he wasn't too obviously trying to make him look a fool. He wanted the man on-side; the last thing he needed was to make his head of household affairs his own enemy.

""I should like to be gettin' inside and takin' possession afore any pirates beat me to the punch," he added, eying the towers which were now his to claim. "Much as I appreciate the welcome, we would all do well to get indoors, lest the heavens open." He spared a glance at the thinly-clad maids, many of whom were now visibly trembling with cold. Some of them smiled thankfully at him. "Unless my city-bred nose deceives me, there's a mighty strong storm a-brewin'."

"This is nothing," a small voice suddenly declared at his elbow. A slip of a lad, whom he took to be the Swoop's bootboy, looked up at him with defensive eyes; the freckles on his nose stood out sharply against his indignant flush. "We've had far worse squalls 'ere than this is shapin' up t'be."

It was an attack from an unexpected quarter; but George took it all in stride. He met the lad's gaze squarely, making sure he regarded him in all seriousness, with not the least hint of condescendence. If he for a moment came across as being too superior, be would lose his man. He well knew how easily young egos bruised.

"I don't doubt it," he replied amiably, as if he spoke to another grown adult, not a lad less than half his age. "And I trust a hale-lookin' lad like you can weather a squall or two. At any rate, you seem strong enough to take this off my hands for me." He held out the small travelling bag he had been carrying with him, lashed to Beauty's packs; he knew it was even lighter than it looked, containing only the few necessities he had required on the road. The boy quickly took the proffered burden. George saw the boy's eyes widen as he discovered how little weight it had.

"And I trust this won't add too much to your load," he continued, tossing a brass noble to the boy for good measure. This more than sweetened the pot; judging from the ecstatic grin that now stretched across the boy's face, he had just won himself a loyal supporter.

"The rest of my swag should be arrivin' sometime in the next few days," he added to Warren, as an afterthought. Several chests and crates, containing what few belongings he'd had in Corus that weren't ill-gotten, were currently lurching their way through the countryside, making slow but steady progress to this same destination. Much as he'd wanted to draw the journey out long enough to give himself time to think, even he hadn't had the patience to make such sluggish progress.

"Do you know when it can be expected, Your Lordship?" was the bland reply. George read the meaning behind the words with an expert ear; the man, still smarting from the humiliatingly vague answer he had been forced to give about the wall's thickness, was turning his tactic back on him. George was frankly impressed by the man's audacity; he had more spirit than he'd originally thought.

"Whenever that lumberin' box they call a coach manages to reach here," he answered, with a laugh that told his opponent that he brooked no hard feelings; the man looked all the more affronted for it, disappointed that his barb hadn't stuck. "I half-wonder how it will get along that narrow pass beneath the cliffs. Most everythin' I'll be needin' for the time is in there," he added, jerking his thumb at the bootboy, who faithfully trailed behind him with his bag. "And I trust I can make do for the rest with what is here."

"Yes, of course," was the immediate reply. George had expected as much; Warren Lansark took umbrage to any suggestion that his household might be ill-prepared to receive its master. His answer was subservient enough, though something in its tone was faintly mocking. "You need only command, my lord, and everything you wish for will be brought you. I'm sure we can meet your needs."

George pursed his lips with slight distaste. The steward intoned the words 'my lord' with much the same regard he himself had for them; the title sounded ironic, like an ill-meant joke, in reference to himself.

_If only he knew my previous array of nicknames,_ George thought wryly to himself. _I fancy he'd throw a fit._

"That's good, then," he said, loud enough for the rest of the company to hear. He was well aware that they were all watching him, waiting for him to move towards the doors of the barony. They were anxious to see if he would hover beyond their bounds, waiting to be invited indoors like a mere guest; or if he would actively take possession, like the rightful master that he was.

He knew which it would be. _After all,_ he told himself, _I was never afeared from enterin' the doors of the Dancin' Dove. If not going to start flinchin' at front-stoops now. _He made a show of casually sauntering across the keep's threshold, stripping off his riding gloves as he went. The gesture clearly told them all that he had arrived, and he meant to stay.

"Allow me to show you to your room, Your Lordship." Lansark had been following close at his heel; now he darted ahead a step and paused, an unspoken question in his impassive face.

George eyed him thoughtfully. The man meant to press his superiority, showing off his better knowledge of the lay of the land; he had the unfair advantage, being far better acquainted with the barony than its rightful owner - for the time being, at least. George wasn't so ignorant as he supposed; he had carefully pored over the floor-plans that Jonathon had given him, getting to know every corner and crevice of his domain before he even left Corus. However, though he knew the layout of the rooms well enough, he didn't know which was currently the appointed master.

After only a slight pause, he nodded in deference. "Lead on," he said. He was tired after his long journey, eager for a wash and a clean set of clothes. Political tussling with his head-of-staff could wait until he was warmed and well-fed.

The steward strode on at a clipping speed, his manner assured, his confidence evident in every step. George followed him; despite his fatigue, his long stride easily kept pace. He could hear the bootboy scrambling behind him, struggling to keep up. As he walked, George darted sideways glances without appearing to do so, taking in his surroundings. He already had a remarkably complete knowledge of the Dancing Dove's inner corridors, the labyrinthine alleys of the Lower City, the staggering maze of Corus' hidden catacombs, and even the myriad passageways of the Royal Palace itself. He had no trouble taking in the wealth of new landmarks that he passed, confirming them against the floor-maps he already knew by heart.

_I wonder if my darlin' had as easy a time as this when she first arrived at the palace as a page,_ he wondered dryly to himself.

At last, they stopped outside the door to a large, well-appointed chamber. Lansark turned, looking a little surprised to see George still right behind him, the bootboy puffing along in his wake.

"I trust you will be comfortable here, my lord," he said, sweeping the chamber with an eloquent wave of his hand.

George stepped through the door. Automatically, his eyes sought out the darkest corners, looking for signs of concealed enemies. His Sight probed for any presence that seemed untoward; satisfied that the room was secure, he looked at the furnishings themselves. At a glance, they looked plain enough; but his knowing eye recognized a Scanran tapestry here, an embroidery in K'miri silk there, a mirror with Yamani patterns in its gilt frame hanging above the bureau. As befitted an estate that stood upon the kingdom's very borders, many of the ornaments were foreign and exotic; they would have cost a pretty penny, to have both bought and had shipped in from abroad.

Impressed despite himself, he gave an approving nod. "This will do nicely," he said, with obvious praise in his voice.

Lansark appeared to be somewhat placated; he gave a thin smile, the first George had yet seen him wear. "Supper will be prepared for an hour's time, sir. If you would prefer to sate your hunger sooner...?"

"No, I'll keep til then."

"Very good. Hot water has been brought into your dressing chamber, and there and towels and robes laid out for your use. If you should require assistance...?"

"No, thank you, I can manage on my own," George replied, evenly. Warren's tone made his unfinished queries sound like rhetoric. He indulged the charade, though his patience was wearing a little thin. He was anxious to divest himself of the dust of the road. "Everything is highly satisfactory, Lansark."

"Yes, sir." The man knew a dismissal when he heard it; for this, at least, George was thankful.

"Place it there, lad," he added, turning to the bootboy now with an encouraging smile. The boy put his bag down in the place indicated, atop a low dresser. Lansark looked slightly peeved again; he had been about to order the boy about himself, and certainly hadn't wanted the dusty, battered-looking travel case put upon the freshly-cleaned furniture.

George sighed inwardly, for the first time since his arrival._ Must we secretly war over every petty thing?_ he asked no one in particular. The boy, meanwhile, grinned at him; the brass noble was obviously still warming his pocket.

"I shall call on you when the meal is prepared, sir," Lansark said from the doorway. At George's nod, he then closed the door behind himself and the boy, leaving the baron thankfully alone in his new quarters.

Once he was unobserved, he quickly crossed the room and opened the various cabinets, making sure that nobody had hidden themselves inside. He searched under the bed, carefully poked the curtains from a safe distance, and finally opened the connecting to door to - _what had Lansark called it?_ \- his dressing-room. There was a chest of drawers, several trunks for keeping clothes in, a few rows of shelves, and some useful hooks for hanging coats on. In the centre of the floor stood a tub and pitcher, steam rising from both; the hot water for bathing, as promised.

Eying it wistfully, George rapidly took stock. His arrival had been uneventful enough, though it gave him ample indications of the kind of situation he had walked into. The place seemed pleasant, comfortable; the house-staff he deemed manageable, for the most part. He would have to keep an eagle eye on the hostler, who might still be angling for a fight; and Lansark himself was going to make himself disagreeable for a while to come, of that he was certain.

He heaved another sigh, this time in contentment; in spite of everything, he felt optimistic. Things weren't so difficult as he had feared, nor quite as drearily easy as he had been dreading. There were things to challenge him here, right enough, and he knew that getting his house in order was only the start of things; once the proper resources came together, this would become his base of operations.

It well-suited his purpose, he decided. Many interesting possibilities were now perceivable upon the horizon. Give him enough time, and he would see what they shaped up to be. Whatever was to come, he at least had a place to call his own; as far as he could tell, it seemed to be ideal for all his wants.

_The place could do with being a bit warmer, though, if a certain lass was to live here._

The instant it crossed his mind, he wished he hadn't dared entertain such a hope; it was outrageously presumptuous of him. Besides, the desert was far warmer than this. So was the palace, for that matter.

No, he would avoid such thoughts. That way lay only madness - disappointment, and self-pity. Those were the last things he needed right now, on top of everything else.

Turning his mind back to more immediate things, he stripped off his stale clothes, eager to enjoy the steaming bathwater before it cooled any more than it already had.

* * *

_Author's note: sorry for the repetitive nature of this chapter. I wanted to show the situation from both Lansark's and George's points of view, since each had a slightly different slant. I don't think I'll do that again any time soon; though I'll continue to switch viewpoints between the two men, I'll try to give them each fresh incidents to relate._

_The Swoop in this chapter is based on the brief descriptions of it in Wild Magic. Not many of the servants are named, though I think it is mentioned that they wear brown livery with gold trim. As you can see, Warren, being the mature, dignified fellow that he is, is going to engage in some childish mind games and petty warfare - more of which are to come in the next chapter!_

_Also, thank you very much to everyone who posted reviews; I appreciate every one! I've been really enjoying reading the other fics written for the Tortall series; I don't think I've ever yet seen another fandom with so many high-quality pieces! _

_~ W.J._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Warren Lansark strode across the main yard of the keep, a furious glower aimed at the ground a few paces ahead of him.

All who saw his approach made a concerted effort to get out of his way. A gaggle of maids gossiping on the kitchen step hastily scurried out of sight, snapping the scullery door closed behind them. A village boy delivering a basket of supplies for the pantry noticed just in time that his path would cross the steward's; he made a hasty detour around the ramparts, the guards on duty nodding in sympathy when he explained the reason for his circuitous route.

Warren had been in a foul mood of late, criticizing everyone and finding fault in everything - well, even more so than usual. The puzzled servants could only trace this sudden surliness to the arrival of the Baron; this turn of temper certainly seemed to coincide with the arrival of their new master.

Truth be told, every one of the house staff had felt some misgivings at the prospect of serving a new lord, especially a common-born one. However, few of them had found anything to complain of. Master Cooper was amiable and fair, able to issue commands without resorting to arrogance. In fact, he was barely any trouble to wait on. The younger lads rejoiced that he was generous with his coin, tripping over each other for the privilege of running his errands. More than half the maids were struck by love-sickness, sighing constantly over his winning smile and his roguish good looks. Most of the men already considered him an honourary one of their own; His Lordship was never too grand to share a friendly word or a fiendish witticism, both of which delighted them.

In fact, no one could conceive of a master who would be better to serve, if serve one they must. No one, that is, except for Warren, who was distinctly less-than-enamoured with His Lordship. It was a topic of committed discussion among the lower household. Most of the servants concluded that pompous old 'Ren was so used to being the _de facto_ despot of the manor, he could stand no competition for control of the place, even from his esteemed employer.

In truth, the reason for Lansark's irate mood was more complex - and perhaps, more petty - than that. Disgruntled to find himself the dogsbody of some mere pad-foot, he had been gleefully planning on finding many chances to hold the advantage over his master, using his own superior knowledge and familiarity with the household to trip his usurper up at every turn. Unfortunately for him, the Baron refused to let himself be wrong-footed - in more ways than one.

On that very first night, an hour after His Lordship's arrival, Warren had called at the master suite as promised, only to find both bedchamber and dressing room completely empty. Cursing the disobedience of his errant lord as he hastily searched the upper corridors, he had, in truth, been eagerly anticipating finding the overwhelmed whelp somewhere in the Keep's labyrinthine halls. With any luck, the 'master' would thereafter be completely dependant on his steward to shepherd him from one set of rooms to another, for fear of getting lost again. It would be fun to lead His Lordship about and boss him like a child - a pastime that should stretch to last the first few days of residency, at the very least.

Half-hoping that the baron had meandered up into the farthest tower and right off the edge of the parapet into the sea, Warren had instead heard a familiar lilt emanating from the dining hall. The baron was already there, seated at the table, nursing a glass of wine and talking animatedly with a maid who, blushing beneath her cap, steadily piled his plate higher and higher.

"Pardon me for gettin' ahead of myself, Lansark," he had said, turning to the door without a hint of surprise as Warren sidled in. "I know I was to wait for you, but I figured I'd best get to know the ways of my house for myself as soon as I could." He aimed a playful glance at the maid beside him, who absently tipped a ladle-full of stew onto the table beside his plate. "A travellin' man should always be able to sniff out the kitchen in a strange house," he declared, giving her a hearty wink.

Warren couldn't help but take it as confounded cheek, an audacious check against his own authority. Of course he well knew that he himself was the servant, and that he should by all rights be bowing and scraping before His Lordship's boots; yet somehow, he just couldn't bring himself to be so subservient. There was something almost belligerent about the man - some impudence in his manner which others took for affability, but which he himself saw as the calculated affront that it was.

The day that followed had only presented him with worse.

He had slept badly that first night - not wholly due to the promised storm that had blown in just before midnight - and risen early, to a day that was overcast, but showed signs of clearing. As the former son of a farmer, he was used to being knocked out of bed well before dawn; and he was more eager than ever to catch the Baron napping. Even an experienced rider, he reasoned to himself, would be exhausted after a three-day ride; and the ruckus of the previous night's squall would have further banished any restfulness. Surely a mere commoner would sleep like the Black God's own until noon at least, after such an exertion.

With intentions to innocently disturb His Lordship's slumbers by loudly performing some menial errand in the corner of the bedchamber, he had carefully opened the door; only to find the room once again deserted. The bed had been slept in, though the coverlet had been neatly smoothed back into place, ready for the maid to turn down. A neat pile of waiting laundry had been stacked, with an air of apology, upon an out-of-the-way cabinet.

Once again, he had gone off in search of his missing master. This time - pointed the right way by the bootboy, still happily jingling his newly-acquired pay in his pocket - he had found the Baron actually atop the highest tower, a spyglass in his hand and a half-finished chart spread upon the parapet in front of him.

"Good timing, Lansark," he had said, turning from his survey of the coast with a brilliant smile. "I was just in need of someone with a better knowledge of the surroundin' landforms than me. I spied some shoals near the mouth of the bay, but I wonder if you can tell me more about that formation-"

Once again, Warren found himself providing half-answers to questions he never would have expected and struggled to supply. After gleaning all he could from his stuttering steward and cheerily saying something about visiting the local harbour-master after breakfast, the Baron had finally stowed his spyglass in his pocket, releasing Warren from this unwelcome inquisition.

It was then that it happened.

A sudden breeze had plucked the chart from the Baron's hand. Secretly smug that all of this senseless work would go to waste, Warren had watched it whisk from His Lordship's fingers and flutter out over the precipice.

To his amazement, the Baron had sprung like an acrobat, landing crouched upon the parapet, and snatched the paper back again. One of his feet had been squarely planted upon the narrow ledge; the other had swung out and remained poised over open space, treading finger-widths from a sheer drop to rocks and rough seas far below.

The Baron had righted himself, rolled up his chart, and hoped down from the ledge with a nonchalance that had been chilling. One might have thought he had done nothing so remarkable as rise from his chair to retrieve a book and seat himself again; when in fact, he had just stepped within mere inches of meeting the Black God himself, casually righting himself again. He had left Lansark standing, struck dumb and almost immobile with shock, and gone in whistling to his breakfast.

That incident was several days ago now, but the memory of it still gave Warren heart palpitations. Now he strode across the courtyard, straying from the house he was supposed to be managing, on some half-forgotten pretext; his real purpose was to avoid the Baron as much as was reasonably possible.

At first, he had been merely disgruntled; now, he was almost fearful. He was afraid of the Baron - he didn't dare openly admit the fact to himself, but deep down, he truly was.

_There's no way that man is as simple as he claims to be, _Lansark muttered to himself, with inward indignation. _There's some despicable secret to him, I'm sure of it. I wouldn't trust him with my back, not in a thousand lifetimes. There's something uncanny about him; something almost supernatural._ _I wouldn't be surprised if he turned out to be some sort of charlatan. Without a doubt he's a fraud... a fiend, a villain... a demon-_

"A demon!"

Warren jumped about five feet in the air. The sudden shout had so exactly echoed his thoughts, he believed for a moment that the Graveyard Hag was howling at the nape of his neck. After a moment, he realized that it emanated from the stables, the double-doors of which he found himself opposite. This was Jobrey's domain, and he was usually best left to it; Lansark could count the number of times he had entered it on one hand. Now, his curiosity piqued, he went in.

Inquisitive heads peered at him over half-doors; alert ears were pricked in his direction. Warren followed his own ears to the end of the building, where a tirade that sounded remarkably like Lansark's own inner-diatribe filtered down from the loft above.

He conspicuously cleared his throat. When this achieved no result, he called up the ladder: "Is there something wrong, Job?"

An ashen face appeared, framed by the hatch in the ceiling above him. An instant later, Jobrey had clambered down, wisps of straw turning his hair into a scarecrow's thatch, his eyes equally wild.

"A demon!" he said again, in a sort of hissing, anxious whisper. "A demon, I swear! I'm a heartbeat away from resigning! Never in my life've I had to deal with such fiendish, cantankerous, downright _dangerous_-"

"You mean the horse?" Warren interrupted, realizing, with thankful foresight, that he was in for nothing more than a string of curses if he let the groom run on unchecked.

"The horse?!" Jobrey repeated, incredulously, as if this was the last thing that would have occurred to him. As if on cue, a shapely head poked out of the nearest stall; a pair of brown eyes regard them with dignified calm.

"Well, the horse gave me a bit o' trouble afirst," Jobrey went on, in a distracted manner which startled Lansark; he knew that the groom had quite a temper, but he had never seen him this irate before. "She's a headstrong lass, that un', and I was strugglin' to make her behave. I was havin' a bit o' a cuss at her, when someone says righ' behind me, 'That's no way to speak to a lady!' I turn round, and who shouldn't be there but the blasted Baron hi'self!"

"The Baron?" Lansark exclaimed, in a tone no less dread-filled than Jobrey's own. "What did he say then?"

"What'd he _do_, more like!" Jobrey shouted, gesturing wildly. "He takes an apple from the pocket o' his britches, tosses it in the air, and - _fwish_!" He made a violent slicing motion with one broad hand. "Somethin' knocks it down; and when I look, if there ain't a dirty-great knife stickin' out of it! He goes over and picks it up, calm as you please - and the knife he threw has split it in two, clean down the middle!"

Jobrey paused to stare at Lansark in undisguised terror. Warren's own expression was not too much different.

"Then he feeds the apple to the horse, one half at a time - he hands the other half t' me to give her, and I don't know how I managed, me hand was shakin' so! - and if the animal hasn't been the soul o' innocence since then! 'That's the trick you need, Jobrey!' says 'is nibs, and off he goes, with a cackle that sounded no less than downright evil!" The groom leaned forward and clutched at Warren's arm; his grip was hard, but his manner was companionable as he looked earnestly into the steward's face. "Heed me, 'Ren - we'd best all clear out o' here, afore it's too late! I've lived all my life on this 'ere spit o' rock, but with crooks like that hereabout, it's just not safe. If I didn't have to send a packet home to me mam and da once in a while, I'd clear out now, never mind the loss of pay. _Some_ things are far more precious than money!"

He released his hand, giving Lansark time to smother a wince. "That man's dangerous, 'Ren," he said, regarding his long-time acquaintance gravely. "I wouldn't put a thing past 'im! You watch yourself up there at the house, an' watch yer back - he'll put a knife in it just like that apple if any o' us displeases him, mark my words! "

With that, Jobrey turned and ambled into the tack room, darting fearful glances into every stall he passed , as if he expected some phantasm to spring out at him any moment.

Warren slowly retraced his steps, his thoughts in turmoil. _Just what kind of man have we been made to serve?_ He wondered, for what felt like the thousandth time. Up until now, his doubts had been vague and unjustifiable, possibly misguided. Jobrey's story only confirmed his worst suspicions. Now that he had sure examples of the terrible feats His Lordship was capable of, all kinds of dreadful possibilities clouded his mind.

_Is he some kind of brigand - a petty thug, perhaps? Or even an assassin?_ Some kind of criminal, surely - it would explain how he could have been awarded the one fief that was far from the capital as one would get without taking the Great Southern Road. Maybe Cooper was some kind of conspirator from the recent uprising who held some power over King Jon, and had been bribed into behaving himself with a parcel of land and a title? After all, the late Roald had been reputed as an ineffectual peace-keeper of a monarch; perhaps his son was just as timid when it came to dealing with ne'er-do-wells?

From being afraid, Warren was surprised to find himself suddenly angry.

_This is my home!_ he muttered fiercely to himself. _I won't have it invaded by gods-only-know what kind of crook! I'm going to find out what kind of criminal we've being made to deal with, once and for all - when the truth comes out, we'll run him out of the fief with garden hoes and kitchen knives, if we have to!_

He glanced up at the keep's towers, feeling furtive and sly. He felt more in control of himself and his situation than he had in days. Already, he had come up with a hastily-formed plan.

He knew that the Baron was composing several important letters, and had been asked not to be disturbed. _Letters!_ Warren scoffed. _Instructions on how best to rob us and slit our throats in our beds, more like!_ Well, he certainly wouldn't disturb His Lordship; and while he could count on not being disturbed himself, he might do a bit of 'tidying' in the Baron's rooms.

With renewed resolved, he strode rapidly towards the keep's front door.

* * *

George stood in his dressing room, poring over a freshly-written letter. It was his first report to Jon - the first of many, he realized, grimacing as he imagined the countless reams of paper he would be required to write - at least two updates per month, and that was if peace prevailed! In this first letter, he had included detailed descriptions of the state of the castle, improvements to the fortifications that he deemed to be necessary, and the resources he expected would be required to make the Swoop a strong outpost against the Copper Isles. How ironic it was, he thought wryly to himself, that after years of stealing paltry pocketfuls of cash from the King's citizens, he was now assured an outright sizable sum, simply by asking for it in writing!

He had gone into this small dressing-chamber to fetch his coat, on his way down to visit the village's rider post. He knew that, for the sake of appearances, should delegate such a menial task to one of the houseboys. However, the simple errand was more significant than it outwardly seemed - and for now, the only one he could trust it with was himself.

He would give his messenger instructions to deliver the letter to Sir Myles at his townhouse; from there, it would assuredly reach Jonathon. In his report, George had addressed the need to appoint a delegated courier, who could be relied upon to deliver his reports directly to the palace. Birds were quick and convenient, but they were also easily intercepted, and, naturally, they couldn't be trusted with verbal messages.

He rather liked Jobrey Coltsham for the job; he could relay his reports to Stefan Groomsman, who had better access to the young king than most court nobles could ever dream of having. He also wanted to do something to get the disgruntled groom on his side. Jobrey, for all his theatrics, seemed steadfast and loyal. He would be placated by the post; and, George suspected, tickled by the prospect of working for a Rogue-turned-spy.

For now, this arrangement would suffice. As his fellow Spymaster, there was no one he trusted more as an intermediary than Sir Myles. He had written a note to Myles himself as well, asking for his advice. Though he had managed to command the loyalty of all the rogues in Tortall, he was still just a common-born, with absolutely no experience at managing a fief. Who better to ask for tips, than the man who had masterfully handled the affairs of Barony Olau for nigh on thirty years?

_Well, perhaps the current custodian of Barony Olau, Sir Myles' heir, who ran things in his stead; and who had also taken charge of Trebond besides._

George ran a hand distractedly through his short crop of brown hair.

He should write a letter to her, he knew. He had been holding out as long as he could. He'd had other things on his mind, admittedly; but truth to tell, she was never too far from his thoughts.

It was because he cared for her that he had maintained silence in her direction. He didn't want to scare her off by coming on too strong - something he had come perilously close to doing enough times in the past. He had better restraint over his feelings for her now; he knew it was better to let her have her head, wait for her to come to him when she was ready.

_If_ she was ever ready.

_It paid off once, now, didn't it?_ he told himself. He smiled fondly - a secret, soft smile that he reserved just for her - as he thought of the last letter he had sent her. Almost three years ago it must be now, he realized, to his surprise; it felt like an age. Back when she had just newly become the Woman Who Rides Like A Man - how that title made him swell with pride, considering where she had acquired her mount! - and Lightfingers, merciful Black God rest his poor soul, had just returned after an ill-fated trip to the desert...

* * *

_Coram felt a firm tap on his shoulder._

_He wheeled around, hand going to the pommel of his broadsword. He didn't feel any safer for being in the middle of Corus' marketplace; here, a touch on the arm meant that someone could just as easily slip the purse from your belt - or put a knife to your throat._

_He turned angrily on his assailant, then relaxed when he saw who it was - though only slightly. He didn't like anyone getting the advantage over him; but George must be very near the bottom of his list of preferred sneaks._

_"It be ye," he growled, looked far from impressed by the fact._

_"It be indeed," George replied, amiably. If Coram was unhappy to see the thief, he was doubly delighted to see the guardsman - though he would have been even gladder to see a small, red-headed figure by his side._

_"It's been a time," he said, making polite conversation. The pair hadn't come face to face in nearly seven years - not since Coram and Alan's first arrival in Corus, when the lass' guardian had warned his mistress against pick-pockets, looking at George all the while. _

_If Coram's temper wasn't good, his instincts certainly were. Though, truth be told, George's own instincts - his Sight, to be exact - having told him that the copper-haired lad would be a worthy acquaintance, had been making his best impression by planting himself between Alan's sandbags and the rest of the market, warning some of his less-scrupulous followers that this obvious country-bumpkin was not to be made an easy mark._

Try explaining that to a battle-hardened warrior,_ George thought ruefully to himself. Maybe he would have the chance, one day. _

_Now wasn't the time. Since that first meeting, he had seen Coram around countless times, but had always thought it in his best interest to keep a respectful distance; given the way the guardsman's frown had deepened, his hunch had been right. Though they hadn't directly met in quite some time, he obviously still remembered George. The thief flattered himself that Alanna must have mentioned him in her manservant's presence from time to time._

_"Not long enough," the grizzled old soldier replied. "The Lord Provost, though, I met not long ago. I'm sure he'd be very interested in meetin' the likes of yon."_

_"An acquaintance I fear we'll never have in common," George said serenely, though he added to himself, _I should hope, if I value my skin_. _

_As if he divined this inner thought, Coram snorted. _

_"We do, however," George said, hastily seizing on this sudden burst of good-humour, "have another mutual friend - a right _noble_ one. If you don't mind me saying-"_

_"As a matter of fact I do," Coram rumbled, his irate tone taking on a dangerous new edge. "I happen to know just how you regard her, just what manner of interest you have; and I'll have you know that I don't stand for it. The Trebonds are a right respectable family, goin' back generations, name in the Book of Gold and all. The daughter of Trebond ain't got any business consortin' with the like of ye."_

_"And I respect your opinion," George answered, in the most placating manner he could manage. It was true - even if he far from agreed with that opinion. "However, if I might presume to be speakin' for the lady herself, I think she would say otherwise."_

_Coram regarded him with a grudging look. "True enough," he said, but he seemed reluctant to admit it._

_"Since we agree on that point," George went on, turning his former tap on the shoulder into a companionable clap on the back, "mayhap she might appreciate if you could be givin' her this from me." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of parchment, sealed and stamped with the sign of the Dancing Dove - a bird in flight, clutching a ring in its beak._

_Coram glared darkly at it. "Ye'd dare trust me to hand it to her, after what I just said?" he asked incredulously._

_"No," George admitted, frankly, "but I haven't any other means of reachin' the lass, and as her closest companion for nigh on eighteen years, I know she trusts you - wisely - to do right by her. Why shouldn't I trust you in like?"_

_Coram looked at him carefully. George could see that he had made some impression, though the guardsman's eyes were still wary. "And if I burn it afore I reach the desert?"_

_"Then that's up to you," George said, flatly, "and I have no say in it."_

_They regarded each other for a time. Coram was evidently searching his words for trickery, weighing up what he had said; while George was endeavouring to give him his most sincere smile. He hoped to convey to the over-protective manservant that he meant his mistress no harm - quite the opposite, in fact._

_At last, Coram snatched the letter, tucking it roughly into his tunic. "I must be goin' soft in me old age," he muttered darkly to himself._

_"Never you, lad," George said, his grin redoubling. "Whilst you're in town, can I take you for a drink?"_

_Coram shook his head. Talking with and taking letters from a thief was bad enough; being entertained by one was out of the question. "I should be gettin' back to her. Gods know what mischief she'll have gotten up to, with only that blasted cat keepin' an eye on her." He fingered the edge of his tunic again. "Asides, I got other letters to be givin' her. Sir Myles wrote her, and her brother-"_

_"Not one from Jon?" George asked before he could stop himself, trying to keep his voice casual. He was aware that Coram was staring at him closely, and not just because he used such a familiar address to refer to the heir to the throne._

_"Not this time," Coram replied thoughtfully, watching for any tiny reaction in George's face, which its owner was making every effort to mask. "But since he's her liege and she his vassal, he can likely reach her on his own whenever he wants her. Could send a whole company of the Own after her, if he wanted."_

_"I'm sure he could," George agreed, this time with a genuine smile. It seemed like just the sort of thing the proud young prince might do; and it made his own pair of unsuccessful agents look paltry by comparison. "Well, with all those letter in your trustworthy hand, you'll hardly be noticin' another note beside those, will you?"_

_Coram had obviously had enough. "Mithros, yer the livin' end," he muttered, turning away with a shake of his head. George could've sworn he saw the ghost of a smile on his lips before he faced the other way, stalking off across the market square._

_"Give the lass my regards!" George called after him. "My fondest regards," he added, under his breath, as guardsman stolidly ignored him, disappearing among the crowd._

_As he stood there, in the midst of his own domain, surrounded by the countless thieves and vagabonds who made up his faithful court, he couldn't help but feel a little forlorn._

* * *

George stared at the letter in his hand, though he hardly remembered that it existed any more.

He was thinking of that last letter he had written to her - how he had poured all his hopes and affections into it, in a feeble last-ditch effort to win her back. He had known that Coram wouldn't read it, had even half-suspected that he might deliver it; but he hadn't been at all sure that she would heed what he wrote.

Well, it hadn't exactly done him any disservice. Next he heard from her, she was standing outside his house in Port Caynn, the address of which he had had the foresight to include in his letter. Before a week of her stay was out, she had been sharing not just his roof, but his bed as well. At last, his patience had been rewarded - however briefly.

_But it hadn't been enough to keep her, had it? And mayhap it wasn't wholly the letter that had done it. If she hadn't had that spat with Jon-_

He hissed out a sharp breath, disgusted with himself.

Hadn't he decided, long ago, that Jon was his friend, and if his lass were to be happy with him, he would give them both his blessing? In a way, Jon had gifted him; if he hadn't behaved so badly and driven her away, he wouldn't have stood a chance. He had no doubt that if he had turned his back on the Rogue then, ridden south before ever Jonathon had a chance to make his disastrous proposal, it would've been he himself who had been rejected - and driven her straight into the prince's arms.

He sighed, suddenly wistful. He had had her for such a short while - what if that was all he would ever have of her?

He was thus torturing himself, when a powerful outside force tugged at the corner of his mind - the part which, through long years of habitual caution, he kept carefully trained on his surroundings. At the same time, his senses gave a familiar thrum.

To anyone who had never had the Sight, the sensation would have been highly disorienting. George had lived with it all his life; it troubled him no more than a slight itch. He was all at once in this spot, staring at his letter; and at the same time reaching out beyond, concentrating an ample part of his perception on the adjoining rooms. He was acutely aware of the chamber next door, and the corridor that led to it.

From an early age, his mother had used to wonder, with exasperation, how he could possibly find out so many things that weren't his business to know. He was nearly in his teens by the time she had realized that his Sight shielded him from her Gift. Suddenly, his heightened awareness of everything around him made perfect sense. As a child, he could detect even the lightest fingers that dared creep their way towards his wallet. As he grew older, he could always tell the precise moment when the owner of the rooms he ransacked for valuables was about to return. Countless times, his Sight had told him who was worthy or unworthy of his trust; helped him to find friends, and aided him in avoiding enemies.

Once, it had even informed him that a small, red-headed burglar was breaking into his room above the Dancing Dove.

Chuckling inwardly at another treasured recollection, George carefully tucked the letter into his pocket, leaving his hands free, and focused his keen hearing upon the connecting door that led to his bedchamber. A moment later, he heard another door - the one leading into the bedroom from the hall - give the tiniest of telltale creaks. Furtive footsteps made soft scuffling sounds on the heavy Tusainian rug.

George grinned to himself with his own distinctive brand of professional satisfaction. Despite his straining senses, which usually indicated some sort of threat, he was highly amused.

Thanks to his Sight, he had a good idea who it was on the other side of the door, sneaking a look through his belongings. Only one of the Swoop's servants was highly-appointed enough to make any plausible excuse for being caught going through his personal effects. He was rather impressed that the man had dared take the risk. However, he was hardly surprised. He had expected as much. In fact, he had anticipated it. He had left a particular chest, little bigger than a hat-box and ornamented with beautiful brass inlays, in a prominent position beside his desk. He had even laid a fine-tipped awl next to it, suggestively - invitingly.

As if the man in the next room were following his silent instructions, he heard a slight _clink_ as the head of the instrument was wedged between the lid and rim of the chest. There was a quiet rasping sound, like metal scraping against metal; then another tiny _click_, as the catch gave way. He heard the box open, with an ominous creak of old hinges.

There came a frantic shout so loud, the maids later claimed to have heard it in the scullery below, through four floors of heavy stone.

It took George a moment to pull himself together; he had near collapsed from the sheer force of the mirth-filled, slightly-malicious laughing fit that had wholly engulfed him. His merriment was tempered a little by the fact that it was at his poor head steward's expense.

Still, he didn't feel too badly for him. He had brought it on himself.

Still chuckling heartily, George strolled out into the passage. A moment later, Warren Lansark burst out of the master bedchamber, his face deathly white and his hair in disarray, shuddering violently in every limb.

At the sight of George he froze open-mouthed, staring at him in abject horror.

"Well now," said George, trying hard not to dissolve into hearty guffaws again. "I take it you found my secret stash. You didn't hurt it none, did you?" He strode past Warren, who appeared to be fastened to the spot, and surveyed the damage.

The box had been thrust back into place with considerable force; one brass-capped corner was freshly dented where it had hit the floor. The lid was still slightly ajar. George opened it fully, inspecting what lay inside with calm disinterest. Its contents were a little jumbled up, but otherwise unharmed.

It didn't really matter, anyway; none of them were matching pairs.

"A bit of a keepsake, from old friends in Corus," he told Warren, who was by now gaping blankly at him. His tone as he said the word 'friends' plainly implied the opposite. "A few small trophies, if you will, with some fine memories attached to 'em - and little else besides."

He snapped the lid of the box firmly shut. The metallic _thud _seemed to rouse Warren from his stupor. He gave a violent start and hastily stood to attention, still looking very pale. He glanced guiltily at George, then turned his gaze shame-facedly towards the floor.

"These beauties have little value to anyone else, other than me," George continued, his voice light and genial, "so there's no point in other folks gawkin' at them. I'll be keepin' them in a safe place from now on, where no one else can stumble on them by accident. I'd appreciate if no one went lookin' for them again - or anythin' else among my things. Consider yourself warned, Warren Lansark."

Despite the content of his words, his manner was still only mildly teasing; the entire episode was far too funny to make him feel at all genuinely cross. _I'll have to tell my darlin' all about it when next I write her,_ he gleefully told himself. Setting the box down again, he loped out of the room, clapping Warren companionably on the shoulder as he passed. All the way down to the rider's outpost, a wicked grin played about the corners of his mouth.

Warren watched him go in silence, hardly daring to move. Several long minutes later, he stole a hasty glance through the chamber door, shuddered once, then reached into his inner coat pocket for his flask, tipping it back for a very long swig with a hand that shook visibly.

* * *

_Author's note: you have no idea how long I've been looking forward to posting this scene! I just _had_ to show Warren finding George's 'collection'! To be honest, in the books, I wasn't sure if George actually had an assortment of ears, or if it was just part of his legend; but I couldn't resist treating Warren to the shock of stumbling across them!_

_I remembered George doing the trick with the apple and the knife in '_First Adventure_'. I suppose he casually does it a lot, to keep his skills up to scratch; and it makes a nice display to put new rogues in their place. Here, I had him do it to scare the bejeebus out of Jobrey._

_Remember that bit in '_The Woman Who Rides Like a Man_' when Coram returns to the desert after the death of Akhnan ibn Nazzir with letters for Alanna, including one from George, which he had half a mind not to give her? I thought it would be fun to imagine how Coram got that letter - he and George make a wonderful odd couple in the rare instances when they come together!_

_I don't think Tamora Pierce has ever described what George's Sight is like. I know Aly has inherited the Sight from him, but hers seems to manifest differently to his, and is stronger; however, since both seem to have their abilities at least partially bestowed to them by the Trickster God, they might be similar. Anyway, I had some fun imagining and making up what George's Sight is like. If I've got it out of canon, please forgive me!_

_A lot got crammed into this chapter. I don't know when the next one will be ready, but hopefully it won't be quite as densely packed! ~ W.J._

_EDIT: thank you to the reviewer who informed me that the Trebond name was written in the 'Book of Gold' not silver, it has now been corrected!_

_Also, I now realize that George and Coram would have spent some time together since the latter's arrival in Corus; George accompanied Alanna to Trebond on the way to the City of the Gods, and I assume George spent his stay there enduring Coram's rants. Someone should write a fic out of that, if they haven't already - I currently don't have the inspiration!_


End file.
